It took everything in me to leave the room, the man’s intense stare taking up space in my mind. I didn’t think he was a wivern or a changeling, because why would the bones of a deity be needed to cage one of them?

Surely that couldn’t be… “Could Malec change forms?” I asked as we entered a narrow stairwell.

“No,” Casteel answered from in front of me. “I know what you’re thinking. That’s not him. He was not the kind of deity that could shift forms.”

Somehow, that didn’t relieve me as it should. We rounded a bend in the stairs, and Casteel opened the door slowly. “Clear,” he murmured.

We stepped out into the first floor of the castle, in a back hall. Based on the bare walls and minimal lighting, I’d bet only the servants ever used it. Quietly, we made our way toward the end of the hall where a crimson banner hung with the Royal Crest in gold. We were a few feet from the opening when Casteel cursed low and grasped my hand, hauling me behind him as he stepped forward, withdrawing a sword.

A figure stepped into the opening, coming to stand in front of the banner—a young woman with midnight hair combed back from her face and into one thick braid. Lacy black material covered her arms, upper chest, and neck, the cloth transparent except for the thicker material that ran through the lace like vines. Her tunic was fitted to her chest and stomach and flared out at her rounded hips. There were slits on either side, revealing black pants and boots that laced up to her knees.

She was no servant. If the clothing hadn’t given that fact away, the crescent-shaped blades she held at her sides would have—blades the shiny black of shadowstone.

It was also the mask painted—or inked—in a deep reddish-black. A disguise that obscured most of her features as it traveled above her eyebrows, reaching her hair, and then swept below her eyes—eyes that were such an unbelievably pale shade of silver-blue, they appeared nearly leached of color—before stretching nearly to her jaw on either side. Wings. The mask looked like the wings of a bird of prey across the olive skin of her face.

Was she a…a Handmaiden? I wasn’t sure, but I knew she was no vampry. She had emotions. I could feel them behind thick mental walls.

“Hello,” she said rather politely. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

I reached for the wolven dagger as Delano shot forward, thrusting out with his bloodstone sword—

The young woman was ungodly quick, a blur of lacy black and deep crimson as she spun under Delano’s arm, snapping up to trap his arm between hers and his body as she twisted, hooking one leg around his waist. She spun again, forcing his body to turn away from her. Within a heartbeat, she had one crescent-shaped blade under his chin and the other pressed against his stomach.

None of us moved.